Breathing Is the Hardest Thing To Do
by Hanson's Angel
Summary: An old SPN story about S3 Dean, Sam and Ruby.  Takes place after "Jus in Bello," and deals with Dean's gunshot wound in an AU fashion.  Dean's deal is coming due.  Sam is awesome.  Ruby is  - Ruby.


Genre/Pairings/Characters: **gen; no pairings; Dean, Sam, S3 Ruby**

Word Count: **Approx. 9500 **

Spoilers: **Through 3x12, Jus in Bello**

Warnings: **Language**

Disclaimer: **Don't own. Make no profit. Mean no harm.**

Summary: **This is old but I am trying to move my stuff from LJ to here, for many reasons, so if you've seen this - apologies, and if not - well, it's old. ****There is sick!breathing issues!Dean and BAMF!Sam and pre-Hell stuff and special-guest appearance!S3!Ruby and all the usual angst and etc. you'd expect when I write. **

**/**

They got the hell out of Colorado as soon as Ruby showed, let them know, exactly, what kind of pieces of shit she thought they were - and that was that. A fucked up ending to a really fucked up situation and, as far as Sam was concerned, the sooner they put distance between themselves and Monument and what had happened to Henriksen and the others, the better.

With all that had gone on - losing the Colt and the whole demon shit show and subsequent awful aftermath in Colorado, and Ruby's appearance and the whole Lilith business - not to mention the 'time was running out on Dean's deal' shit that continually hung over their heads - it wasn't a huge stretch to understand how Dean's wounded shoulder would end up far down on their list of Important Things To Worry About Right Now, how - technically - that particular concern didn't even really make the list at all, at least not right away.

They'd gotten back to the motel after leaving Dodd's office, were packing up so they could get the hell out of there while they had the chance, when Sam caught sight of the bloodied bandage on Dean's shoulder as he pulled his t-shirt off.

Until that moment, what with everything going on, Sam had forgotten that Dean had been shot.

"Hey," he said, moving toward him. "You should let me change that quick before we go, see if it's still bleeding."

"We don't have a lot of time, Sam," Dean said. "Henriksen's story is going to cover our asses for now but that doesn't mean we can dick around here. Anything can happen." But he stayed still, allowed Sam to gently peel the bandage from his skin, winced but managed not to pull away when Sam dabbed at it.

"That hurts?"

"What do you think?" Dean looked down at the still-oozing wound, gingerly poked and held his hand over it. "It's not bad, just needs another bandage."

Sam went and dug around in their shit, came up with some first-aid tape and then went into the bathroom for water and a washcloth, Dean standing and pressing on his shoulder the entire time. "I need to wash this out really well," Sam said, more to himself than to Dean. "We don't have anything to disinfect it with, so soap and water will have to do until we pick something up." He pulled Dean's hand down and pressed a washcloth to his shoulder. "You sure it was through-and-through?"

Dean turned around, let Sam get a look. And Sam _did _look, saw where the bullet had caught him and then the exit wound, high up on Dean's shoulder. Sam had seen it in the jail cell, but now he could see there was also another smaller - mark - lower and more centered in Dean's back, another apparent exit wound that Sam had missed. "You got hit twice?" he asked Dean. The second wound looked like it was a through-and-through as well, and Dean took his hand down and, sure-fucking-enough, there was another, smaller entrance wound less than two inches below the first.

"Yeah, I see it," Sam said. It was a relief to know the bullet - or bullets - were out, but still. If Sam had learned anything, predicting where a bullet might exit the human body was a tricky thing. Not to mention its trajectory before it left.

He felt - odd.

He couldn't pinpoint what the feeling was, exactly - he knew what a through-and-through looked like as opposed to what a wound with a bullet lodged somewhere inside looked like and this particular bullet wound wasn't the worst Sam had ever seen, but for some reason he didn't feel the relief he would've thought he'd feel at seeing how minor it actually seemed and - well, fuck it. Dean seemed fine. Sam was worried about - nothing, really, not when they had real concerns to occupy his time - and yet, Sam couldn't shake the feeling of disquiet that stole through him, the idea that, despite what he was seeing and how Dean was behaving - totally normal - something wasn't quite right.

And then, he'd gotten the wound cleaned up, Dean barely into a clean shirt when Ruby blew in, spouting her shit and yapping about doing things her way and, most horrifying of all, finding out about Henriksen and everyone else, all of that effectively driving any and all thoughts about Dean's wounded shoulder away from Sam. They just didn't have time for it, not when they took in the big picture, and in hindsight, maybe Sam should've been more attentive earlier on, been more on the ball but they were facing too much shit for either one of them to be worried about what looked to be a minor flesh wound.

Sam wouldn't give it another thought until it started to be too late.

**/**

They picked up a couple cases and meandered here and there, took care of a ghost in Missouri and a displaced spirit in Arkansas, all within a timely manner and little fanfare, but to Sam it all seemed kind of half-assed. The shit that had gone down in Monument had taken a lot out of both of them, but it really seemed to be pulling on Dean, fucking with his head in ways Sam was sure he hadn't seen before. Sam's own head was a mess, no question - Dean's deal was up in less than three months and truth be told, he wasn't in much better shape than Dean was at this point, though it was hard for Sam to finger what the difference between them was, why whatever was up with Dean seemed - more off than normal.

"We should really be spending our time looking for Bela," Sam said, more than once. "Not wasting our time on this hunting shit. We don't have time for this."

What he meant was, they didn't have the time to waste on something as - mundane - as hunting. Not when Dean's time was steadily dwindling away and they needed the goddamn Colt and whatever the fuck - and Sam just thought hunting was about the last thing they should be spending their limited time on.

"Since when has hunting things and saving people become a waste of time?"

It was a typical Dean response, but Sam wasn't in the mood for his altruistic crap, not now, not with time coming down to the wire. "Since I found out you only have a year to live," Sam shot back, not looking at him, but his voice hard all the same. "Or, if you want to get technical, forty two weeks ago. Excuse me if saving someone I don't know is taking a back seat to actually trying to save my own brother at the moment."

Dean looked over at him, his face a study in irritation and sadness. "Not gonna happen, Sam. So we - _I _- might as well do what I can with what time I have left. There's no sense sitting around, pissing and moaning about everything."

That was also typical Dean, and his seeming acceptance of the whole situation never failed to piss Sam off. But there was no sense in arguing with him, so Sam didn't bother. There were too many other things to concentrate on, getting from one day to the next and Sam knew when and where to pick his battles.

They continued on, did it Dean's way with the hunting and shit, and at first, Sam thought Dean - on top of everything else going on - was coming down with something vague and annoying, some cold or virus he'd managed to pick up. Even at the best of times, Sam wasn't given to noticing that kind of thing, Dean getting a cold or the sniffles or whatever, so now, when everything was at its worst and they had a whole shitload of other issues to occupy their time, it stood to reason that Sam didn't catch on right away, that Dean wasn't well.

And to be fair, Dean was subtle about whatever was going on with him. He always had been, his entire life. And he'd stayed true to this, especially now when Hell was looming and he was facing so many things - alone - things that he wouldn't want to let Sam in on.

The first sign was barely anything, just Dean grimacing, and making a slight noise of pain when he thought he was alone - but which Sam caught when he was coming back to the car after paying for the gas in Arkansas. He'd found Dean leaning his forehead against the steering wheel, panting as though trying to catch his breath, eyes closed in intense concentration. "What's wrong?" Sam asked. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Dean had answered. He opened his eyes but kept his hand against his side, like he was in some kind of pain. "Just tired."

Tired. And apparently feverish because the next day Sam found him popping a handful of Advil and washing them down with grimacing swallow of whiskey at ten o'clock in the morning. "What's up?" Sam asked, eyeing the whiskey bottle.

"Don't know," Dean said. He ran his hand across his eyes and squinted, like he was trying to focus them. "Just a fucking headache."

His eyes were glassy, his face while as a sheet, and that was it, Sam began to put two and two together. He felt almost sick with the realization of what seemed to be happening, something that Sam should've made sure he kept up on. "Let me see your shoulder."

Dean was still able to look irritated, and for a moment Sam thought he was going to refuse to do it, but he must've realized Sam wasn't fucking around, or maybe he really was feeling like shit, because he pulled up his shirt and let Sam get a look.

"Nothing looks infected," Sam said. And nothing did - both wounds appeared to be healing like they were supposed to, no drainage or pus or angry red marks that signaled the onset of infection. He almost wished he could see something definitive - at least that way they'd know exactly what they were dealing with. Otherwise, Sam didn't know how to explain Dean's fever, or the pain or the weird way he was breathing. Or, wasn't breathing right, as the case was.

"Must be something else, then," Dean said, pulling his shirt back down. Even doing something that simple was putting him in pain, making him gasp, and Sam could see it right away. "It'll pass once I take something for it."

And that was it, all Dean said, and Sam let it go because he had no choice - the wounds looked okay and Dean was on his feet, still moving and acting like he always did - other than the winces and slight groans of pain, things he often did when he rolled out of bed on certain mornings even when he was at the peak of health, especially after a particularly brutal hunt.

And getting shot and what-all-else had happened in Colorado - well, no one could argue that hadn't been painful at the least and brutal at the worst.

They left Arkansas and headed southeast toward Alabama, something involving a poltergeist. Normally, this sort of tour would've given the both of them just the smallest amount of joy - as much as anything involving killing monsters and supernatural shit could give them any kind of "joy" - because of the states they were wending their way through, the warmer southern tier, as it were. But of course, this wasn't like any other time, these were Dean's final weeks - days - before that fucking deal was due, that deal that should've never been made in the first place - and whatever damn routine they'd fallen into with the hunting was now secondary compared to what was scheduled to happen in the upcoming weeks -

_Days -_

Not to mention that Dean was struggling. Struggling mentally, struggling in every way possible.

But _really_ struggling physically - though Sam didn't catch this until later.

Not until they were in some backwoods motel in some rinky-dink town and Dean couldn't breathe.

Though to be fair, Dean didn't let on that he couldn't breathe well - didn't even seem to know it himself, in fact, just seemed to be coming down with a bad cold, or maybe the flu - some kind of respiratory thing where Dean looking flushed one moment and pale the next, his eyes circled with purplish bruises. Dean never said anything, didn't complain at all, just kept popping Advil at odd times and then, a couple days after that, seemed to have this wheezing cough hit him out of nowhere, like he had come down with a cold but one that left him out of breath more than anything else.

"You still sick?" Sam finally asked, after nearly a week had gone by and it was the third night in a row where Dean had rolled out of bed between the three and four a.m. mark, and closed himself into the dingy motel bathroom, coughing until he was literally choking - and then gasping - to catch his breath. Sam hadn't even bothered to knock, or announce his presence in any way, just barged his way into the bathroom in time to catch Dean leaning over the toilet, his forehead pressed against the back of the seat cover.

"No," Dean panted. His eyes were still closed, and he looked like he was moments away from sliding to the floor. "Yeah." He swiped at his streaming nose with the fistful of toilet paper he was clutching and ended up coughing some kind of shit into it. "Something's not right. Don't know if it's just a bad cold or -" He motioned vaguely toward his back. "This."

"What is 'this'?' Sam demanded. But he already knew. And felt dread about, because despite checking it out earlier and deeming it to be okay, there was no doubt that it could be anything else.

The gunshot wound he'd neglected to tend. Kept forgetting about, really, because there was so much - so fucking _much_ else to think about right now, but which was obviously fucking with Dean's health way more than Sam had realized.

"You need a doctor," Sam finally said. He said it because he didn't know what else to say, what else to do, not once he'd checked everything over, looked over Dean's wounds _yet one more fucking time_ to see if there was some clue, something they - _Sam _was missing, a piece of the puzzle to all this extra bullshit on top of the regular bullshit they were facing. "This is serious, Dean. I - I can't tell what's going on and - you - are sick and it might be related to the shooting but it might not be and we - we need to find out what's going on because you only have -"

_Only have so much time left - or little time left, to be honest about the whole fucking thing, and goddamn it, I'm not ready for this shit yet, not that I'll ever be ready for it - _

"I don't know," Sam finished, somewhat lamely. "I - if you're sick, you need to get looked at."

"What the hell are you on right now?" Dean said, but not before leaning himself against the wall and hacking up some more crap into his bundle of toilet paper. "I can't get 'looked at.' Not with a goddamn bullet wound in my shoulder."

"Fuck that," Sam said. But it was half-hearted at best. He got it. He'd gotten it before they'd even started talking about it. Bullet wounds and trips to the ER were mutually exclusive in their world, always had been. But, damn, this was Dean and Dean feverish and not being able to breathe and obviously having some kind of related trauma going on with being shot, trauma that Sam couldn't see but which was very real, given Dean's symptoms and behavior and - maybe most important of all - Sam's gut instinct.

"We need to lay low, then," Sam finally said, when Dean was done coughing and gasping - or, at least done doing so much of it - and Sam had helped him to his feet - with nary a protest from Dean, which sent quiet alarm bells ringing through Sam's brain, Dean not fighting him about being helped to the bed. "Maybe you've just picked up the flu or something. But if you did, then you need to rest and just - let yourself get over it."

He didn't believe a word he was saying, had a hunch Dean didn't either, but Sam let the words spill forth anyway because given their situation, he was pretty sure Dean was right, and there wasn't anything else to do.

**/**

They spent two days in the nameless motel room, two days of Dean feverishly tossing in bed when he wasn't kneeling beside it, trying to breathe. He couldn't keep anything down besides a few sips of water, and while he hadn't been delirious, at least not at first, he hadn't been himself, either, and Sam was navigating through worried-but-competent into scared-out-of-his-fucking-head territory with each passing hour, and with barely a coherent thought as to how he'd arrived there. He pushed the water, the Advil, held the trash can when Dean leaned over to puke the little bit that was in his stomach, piled the bedcovers over him when he shook with the chills and laid a cold towel against his forehead when he was burning up.

If Dean slept, it was in five minute increments. Sam himself never closed his eyes - the sound of Dean's feverish moaning interchanged only with the sound of him panting and trying to cough - do _something_ to clear his lungs of whatever the fuck was in there - keeping him wide awake, and by morning Sam was at his wit's end. He knew Dean wouldn't want it, knew it was a waste of time to even ask him, but nothing seemed to be working, not the damn over-the-counter meds, not keeping Dean propped up all night, not the endless water-soaked towels Sam had kept laying across Dean's fevered skin every twenty minutes, like was disturbingly silent and uncharacteristically still, except when he was doubled over coughing; then he was neither silent nor still. It was making Sam crazy, but aside from the ability to keep Dean hydrated with an I.V. there was nothing they'd be doing any differently at the hospital, so they stayed where they knew Dean's breathing would be easiest if he slept upright, but the natural inclination was to curl up when sleeping; the best way to prevent it would be to manually keep him upright. Luckily, Dean's thinking was too muddled with fever to organize a sufficient protest. Armed with everything he thought he'd need handy, Sam arranged the provisions on the bedside table and got ready for a long night.

It turned out to be one the longest nights of his life.

Nothing had helped, Dean was slipping into some kind of - shock mode or something - could barely be roused, was probably just this side of dehydration and who-the-fuck-knew what else, some sickness or infection inside him, something hidden but there all the same, maybe even some internal bleeding from where the bullet - or bullets - had passed through. Whatever was going on, Sam didn't know what else to do - Dean needed help, help that Sam couldn't give despite the efforts from the night before and if he didn't get that help soon -

So, yeah, it was time to quit fucking around. That much was clear, whether Dean was agreeable or not. "Dean."

He was curled on his side, shaking, his breathing some sort of awful cross between wheezing and a gasping rattle. _Death rattle_, Sam thought, and was immediately horrified by where his mind had gone. He reached down, gently shook his shoulder. "Dean."

He managed to get his eyes open but that was all - every effort he had seemed to be concentrated on pulling in his next breath. "We're going to the hospital," Sam said. "I don't want this to be any harder for you than it already is but I - don't know what else we can do here. You're getting worse and I don't have the right stuff to take care of you. I've tried everything I can think of and nothing's working. So, I'm gonna go get the car and -"

"Sam."

He could barely talk, his voice almost gone, the effort of both talking and breathing nearly impossible for him. "Don't talk," Sam warned. He leaned forward, tried to prop him up a little so Dean could maybe breathe a little better - even though that hadn't done much good when Sam had tried it before - but Dean surprised him by grabbing Sam's arms, trying to pull himself up. "Dean, what -"

"No hospital." It was all he could get out before he started falling forward. Sam caught him, not entirely surprised at Dean's protest, or his inability to stay upright.

"Yes, a _hospital_," Sam said, trying to sound forceful and calm at the same time. "I'll call an ambulance if I have to." He didn't know if he would or not - they'd never had to take it to that level before, and he wasn't sure if he could actually do it, not when he could just as well lift Dean over his shoulder and drag him into the car himself. "Now, come on. You have to."

"Sam, no." He was still hanging onto Sam, clinging to him, really. "No."

"Why not?" Sam didn't get it. Okay, hospitals weren't their favorite places but they both knew when it was time to admit when they needed to go to one, and this was one of those times. That Dean didn't get this was - not like him.

"I - can't." And his breath was coming in huge gasps again, the very fucking thing that Dean needed to get seen for. "I - can't be there when - my time - runs out. Not there. Not in - a jail."

"Jail? What jail?" Sam could feel himself becoming slightly hysterical - they should've been in the car and on the way to the damn hospital by now, and the fact that Dean could barely catch his breath was only driving that point home further.

"This." Dean's voice was nothing more than a breathy whisper but he managed to put his hand up to his shoulder. "No - hospital. Cops. Sammy - the bullet. Don't want - what's - left - stuck alone."

"Dean, what -"

And then Dean grabbed Sam's arm, hard enough so that he nearly sent them both toppling onto the floor. Sam managed to keep them both from falling but still Dean kept a hold on him, refused to let him go completely. "Just - us," he got out. "Sam. Please."

Rarely did Dean beg for anything. Sam could count on one hand how many times he'd heard Dean plead this way - but the desperation was coming through loud and clear in this moment, this time and place.

_He doesn't want to be by himself when - that time comes._

_Shut the hell up. This isn't his time yet._

_You don't know that_

_He still has a few weeks yet._

_Maybe he doesn't._

_He's right you know. If you take him in, they'll keep him there, investigate, maybe even put two and two together about Colorado. And then - who the fuck knows what they'll do. What if he's right? What if he ends up spending the last days of his life alone in some hospital or - worse - a jail cell, away from you and - _

And, it was fucking unthinkable. That's all there was to it. Dean didn't ask for much - ever - and what he was asking now - to stay with Sam - seemed like such a small thing, a basic thing - but -

_He could die without help. Right here, in this room. Before his deal is due. Can you live with that?_

_He doesn't want it any other way, though. How can I deny him that, after he's done so much? Given up so much?_

"Sam." It was the only thing Dean said before sagging forward and losing consciousness, but it brought Sam out of his reverie, forced him to not just catch Dean before he fell but really confront what the hell was happening here. The sound of Dean's voice, the plea it held, the idea of Dean - having some version of peace of mind, at least for this moment, was what won out for him. Sam wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do, how he was going to keep Dean alive and give him this, but he was just desperate enough to do what he would've never thought he was capable of doing.

He summoned Ruby.

**/**

She came quickly enough - faster than she usually did - but given what was going on, it felt like an eternity to Sam. It didn't help that Dean was out - fevered, clammy, unconscious, his breathing a horrible gasping sound that Sam couldn't bear to listen to, but feared would suddenly cease into nothing, which would be even worse.

He was sitting on the bed, his laptop across his legs, one arm around Dean, who was bundled and propped against him, sometimes muttering unintelligibly, every once in awhile trying to cough up whatever it was that wouldn't let him breathe, when she came. He was so engrossed in trying to read the screen and make sure Dean was okay that he didn't see or hear her when she came in.

"Aww, isn't this quite the Hallmark moment." Sam looked up, startled, the biting sarcasm in her tone not lost on him but he nearly dumped the computer to the floor in his relief at seeing her. She caught his enthusiasm and eyed him with a leer. "Hey, Sam. It's good to see you too."

"Ruby." He caught the computer and set it down, carefully disentangled Dean from his side, and gently propped him with the pillows, made sure he was as comfortable as he could get him in this type of situation, before turning his full attention to her. "What the hell took you so long?"

She glanced at both Dean and him, but kept her gaze on Dean. "I've been busy. What the hell's the matter with _him?"_

Sam didn't bother with the niceties. "I need you to help me." Without knowing he was going to do it, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her away from the bed, over to the table by the window so he could talk to her - _really_ talk to her, without Dean hearing. Not that he really thought Dean could hear what was happening, given how he wasn't even awake, even when Sam tried to rouse him. But still - if Dean knew Ruby was here, had even an inkling at what Sam was going to have her do, he'd be insane with rage, deathly ill or not. "He's - sick. He can't keep anything down, he can't breathe and I'm pretty sure he's dehydrated. I don't know what's wrong with him, exactly, but I think it has something to do with him getting shot in Colorado. He might even be bleeding inside somewhere and going into shock. I don't know what else it could be, I've tried to look online but I -" He stopped, realized he was babbling and Ruby was glaring at him - when she wasn't glancing over at Dean on the bed. He forced himself to ask the question he really had, the one he knew she could answer. "He won't die, right? I mean, he still has some time before his deal is due and - they won't take him before that, will they? It's a deal and - they have to honor that, don't they?"

He'd never really heard Ruby laugh before, and the sound of it was an unpleasant grate in Sam's ears, so much so that if he never heard it again he'd be more than fine with that. "Oh, Sam," she said, when she'd finished cackling. "That's almost too precious for words. But you're not really that - ignorant - are you?" Somehow, she managed to eye him up and down, which made him feel - well, fucking _uncomfortable_ - even as he was standing there, worried out of his damn mind about Dean. "And here, I thought you were the smart one." She laughed again, but this time, the humor seemed forced. Indeed, she cut herself short, narrowed her eyes. "No, Sam. Hell doesn't give a shit if Dean joins them tomorrow or the day his deal is up. If he dies now, in the next minute, from natural causes - or whatever the hell this is - well, that's it. They'll come get him and never look back, will be glad to have him early, to be honest. Your stupidity - or his - makes no difference to them." She inched closer until she was nearly pressed against him. "So, get rid of that sappy, tortured look on your face. It's useless." She stopped for a moment, possibly unnerved by Sam's own quiet fright. "Why did you call me?"

"I -" But Sam was suddenly unsure - he knew he needed her, but her harsh words, the clear intent of them, had thrown him out of his earlier determination. "I need - your help," he stammered. "Dean obviously needs a hospital but he doesn't want that and I - I can't force him -" _I won't force him, not now _- "So I'm going to need you to help me take care of him."

"Gee, Sam, I wish you would've told me when I got my medical degree. Because, short of that, I don't know what kind of help you think you can get him."

She was dismissing him - Sam could hear it in her voice, the bored, _I'm-so-over-this _tone he'd heard countless times before. But, this wasn't like any other time, this was Dean sick, unable to fucking _breathe_, Dean maybe about to die, and that couldn't happen, not now, not three weeks from now, not ever -

Sam grabbed hold of her wrist again, this time digging his fingers into it. "You're going to help me," he said. Her diminishment of the situation - of Dean - her unwillingness, her goddamn bravado - all of it - suddenly pushed at him, enough so he could feel himself wanting to push back. He backed her up against the table so she had no choice but to look at him. "You're going to get over to the nearest hospital and you're going to go and get me some things so I can take care of Dean here. That's what you're going to do." He felt like he was a breath away from snapping her wrist in two beneath his fingers, from wiping that damn smirk from her face. "That wasn't a request. That was me, telling you you're going to help me get Dean well again."

"Okay, Sam." Her gaze left his - the first moment Sam had seen her look uncomfortable since she'd arrived. "I won't be able to do much, though. It's not like I know what's wrong with your brother or anything."

"No," Sam said. He loosened his grip on her just the slightest. He could tell she was with him - at least for now. "But I _do_ know. I was able to find some information online and I'm pretty sure I can - treat him here, if I can get hold of the right things. So shut up for a minute and let me tell you what you're going to do. For me. For Dean."

And, miraculously, she shut up.

**/**

She was only gone a couple of hours, but it was a lifetime - Dean's fucking lifetime, if Sam really thought about it, and what else did he have to think about as Dean lay next to him, struggling to take every breath in - and he literally _was_ struggling, gasping one moment, trying to cough the next, and then back to the horrible panting wheeze the after that - but she _did _come back, still wearing hospital-issue blue scrubs. She came through the door carrying a box, stopping only long enough to shake her hair free of the net it was wrapped in, and rip the surgical mask from her face. Sam barely recognized her in that get-up, but at least - from all the stuff she had - it looked like she'd been successful at doing what Sam had told her to do.

"Well, that could've gone better." It was all she said as she dumped the contents of the box onto the table, but by how flushed her face was and pissed off she looked, Sam was pretty sure that whatever had gone down while she was gathering everything at the hospital was something he probably didn't want the details on. "Next time you want me to play Florence Nightengale, do me a favor and get someone else. Or better yet, go yourself."

She was clearly pissed, possibly even rattled - about whatever had gone on - but Sam didn't give a shit, didn't have the time to worry about it. "Did you get everything I asked you to get?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, _Sam, _I got your precious antibiotics and needles and whatever the hell else it was you asked me to get." She slapped a bag of some sort of blood product into his hand. "It wasn't easy, but I did it."

Sam put down the plastic bag of blood he was holding, started sorting through the rest of the things in front of them. "Did you have any trouble? Did anyone - suspect you aren't - you know, a nurse?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. I did what I had to do." Her lips curved into an eerie smirk that made Sam pause, despite all that was on his mind. "Someone in the pharmacy was a bit - difficult. But I took care of it.

Sam had already made peace with the knowledge that he was willing to do whatever it took to get Dean through this, including acceptance of whatever - methods - Ruby would need to employ to help him - but that didn't mean he wanted to hear about it. He held up his hand to cut her off. "Don't. Just help me set this stuff up."

She frowned. "You know, Sam, usually your bossiness is kind of a turn on, but I'm afraid tonight it's a pain in my ass. I did what you asked - even though I think it's a huge waste of time and you're being stupid for not just bringing Dean to a hospital. I don't know how to set up any of this stuff, so if you want help with that, you're out of luck. I had a hell of a time getting that shit and I don't really feel like playing nursemaid anymore tonight. So, why don't you call me when you're done being Mr. Martyr with Big Brother over there so we can get down to some real work."

For a split second, Sam thought about shoving her against the wall and using some sort of force - threat - anything he could think of to get her to quit fucking resisting him and just do what the fuck he was asking. But that route would probably get him nowhere and he needed her right now if he was going to get this done. "I need you to help me," he said. He held a bag of saline out to her. "Please, Ruby."

So fucking awful, groveling, but Sam didn't think he could set everything up and get it working by himself and really, this wasn't for himself, this was for Dean -

_Oh, really? You sure about that?_

So he didn't give a shit what he had to do, or how it fucking looked. And Ruby - for whatever reason - seemed to get that. Or maybe not, maybe she didn't have anymore of a clue as to why Sam would need to have her here, but at least she seemed willing to go along with it for a little while longer.

"Fine," she said. She took the bag of saline, set it down with a look of distaste. "But I don't have any clue how to work this stuff. So you'd better be sure you know what you're doing because I'm not in the mood to be cleaning up any more of your medical messes tonight."

"We'll be okay," Sam said. He was already over by the bed, trying to figure out the best way to position Dean for what Sam was about to try and do. "I have a video I found online, a teaching session or something about starting an IV and giving a blood transfusion and it doesn't look that hard to do." That wasn't completely true, but Sam needed the pep talk as much as she did, if not more. "I'll just need you to help me make sure I - do all the steps right. That's all."

She didn't say anything and it didn't matter anyway, Sam's entire attention was focused on Dean again. His breathing was shallow - barely there - and he hadn't made a sound or even moved the entire time Ruby had been there. "Dean," Sam said. Nothing "Dean, c'mon, man. Let me know what's going on, here." He shook him - still nothing. But maybe that was better? Dean out cold so he wouldn't feel the - goddamn primitive torture they were about to inflict upon him. Yet Sam was pretty certain it would be better if Dean would give at least_ some _kind of response to him, even if it meant he would be aware enough to feel whatever pain he and Ruby might inflict -

_He can't respond you dick, he's just this side of critical, why the fuck do you think you had Ruby go and get all this shit, the blood and antibiotics and a damn IV pole? So you could all stand around and look at it? If he was doing well enough to be awake we wouldn't need to be doing all this -_

"Sam." Ruby's voice, hard and impatient, brought him out. She slid one of the disposable gloves onto her hand with a resounding snap. "Let's go. Time's wasting. Especially Dean's."

She sounded almost pissed, like she was in a hurry - which she likely was - and then Sam knew why he'd wanted her here, understood that he would need her strength - misplaced and emotionless as it was - to push him along.

They got the IV set up, laid everything out, done each step just like the video showed, Ruby reading out the steps he'd hastily written down while Sam stopped and studied the computer screen every few seconds. It was nerve-wracking but not impossibly so, and they'd managed to get the needle in Dean's hand on the second try. Dean hadn't moved, hadn't flinched the slightest which made Sam more nervous, that Dean had slipped far enough into a stupor that he wasn't able to feel Sam ineptly poking a needle into a vein on the back of his hand, or notice that Ruby - fucking Ruby of all things - was standing there, helping him hang an IV bag and then reading directions on how to clamp it, among other things. And somehow, between the two of them, they got the saline and the antibiotic going like it was supposed to - or, at least it _seemed_ to be going the way it was supposed to, and that was it.

There was nothing to do but wait.

"You've done this before," Ruby said, when they were almost finished, and Sam was taping the needle in place.

"No," Sam said. "But I've seen it done. Once."

"In a hospital?"

"On a kitchen table," Sam answered. "When I was twelve. My dad was laid out, I forget what got him but we were at Pastor Jim's and somebody he knew, a hunter who had some medical background, came in and started him on an IV. Not elaborate like this but the same - kind of thing." It was what had given him the idea in the first place, the memory of that time in Minnesota when he and Dean had witnessed John being tended to.

"Well, maybe you'll get lucky and this'll work after all," Ruby said. "Call me when you - get this taken care of." And one moment she was there and the next she was gone, as if she'd never been there at all.

Which was just as well, Sam realized, once the initial shock of her rapid disappearance had worn off. Really, she didn't need to be there once she'd done her thing. Dean wouldn't want her here - would be livid once he _did _find out she'd been a part of this. So, yeah, it was for the best that she was out of there.

This was between him and Dean. The way Dean would want it, regardless of how it ended up playing out.

**/**

In the end, Sam couldn't go through with the blood transfusion. He figured he could set up a second line for it by himself, without Ruby, but he didn't have the nerve to do it. Not because he didn't think he could set it up but because it was - well, different. Saline and antibiotics - Sam knew Dean could tolerate those things all right but the blood - he wasn't even sure, exactly, if it was the right stuff even though he'd told Ruby what to get and it looked like she'd brought the right stuff - the blood was on a whole other level and if, for some reason, Dean couldn't handle it or something went wrong, Sam wasn't sure he could handle that, and then they'd really be in trouble, would be back to square one, Sam taking him to a hospital where there'd be all sorts of hard questions about not just Dean's condition but why was Sam giving him IV's and a blood transfusion in a damn motel room -

_Because you're doing it for Dean -_

And more likely than not police would become involved - the one thing Dean wanted to avoid.

So, Sam left the blood product untouched on the table, cleared some of the shit away and pulled his chair as close to Dean as he could get it.

He didn't know what he was waiting for, or how long it would take, and when whatever he was sitting there for didn't come right away, Sam felt himself beginning to give in to his own exhaustion - the days of not sleeping himself and all the tension filled hours of trying to help Dean breathe and then the whole Ruby/IV business - before he knew what was happening. He fought it with everything he had, went and splashed water on his face, tried to straighten up the mess a little, but he must've ended up dozing off because the next thing Sam knew, the room was bathed in a weird, dusky light. He didn't wake up as much as slam back to consciousness with a heart-thudding jolt. At first he wasn't sure what had woken him, couldn't even place what he was doing for a moment, and then it suddenly hit him -

_Dean. Shit, Dean _- and it all pierced through his groggy head in a rush, Dean sick but begging him not to bring him anywhere, Ruby, the IV, all of it.

"Sam."

Dean's rasping voice, and Sam was on his feet and all but on top of him because, goddamn it - _Dean was awake, _saying Sam's name and sounding irritated as hell while doing it. "Hey," Sam said, once he knew he wasn't dreaming, that Dean's eyes were open and he really was back. His relief was so great, he almost didn't trust himself to say anything more for fear of bursting into tears. "How're you feeling?"

Dean lifted his hand, the one with the needle in it, a thunderous frown darkening his still-pale face. "I thought I said no hospital."

"Does this look like a hospital to you?" Sam tried for a lighthearted response, even tried to inject some sarcasm into it but it only came out sounding - well, just plain relieved. Because Sam was, more than he could ever say. And happy - happy that Dean was awake, was talking, was aware - kind of - of what was going on. Sam was so happy, in fact, so damn relieved that _Dean was still with him _that he would've scooped him up into some kind of bear hug if he thought Dean would've allowed it. Still. Sam tried to keep it light, if only so he didn't burst into tears, something he knew Dean wouldn't want. "Dude, if this is what you think a hospital room looks like, then, well, you might need more help than I thought."

Dean closed his eyes, and while clearly out of the woods - though just barely - was still clearly exhausted. Sam pulled the covers up over him, took Dean's hand with the IV in it to make sure it was still in place and working right. Dean opened his eyes, and looked right at him, but didn't try to protest or pull away. "What happened?"

Sam fussed a little bit more with the blankets, went and got the thermometer. "You were sick. Really sick. Do you remember that?" He shook the thermometer down, stalling, even though this wasn't something he could really keep stalling on. "I had to - go and get some stuff to give you, meds and some other stuff. But I think you're okay now."

Dean made to hold up his hand again, the one with the IV attached, but didn't have the strength to raise it, could barely move it at all, he was just that weak. "Does this look okay to you? Me hooked up to some kind of IV?"

"Trust me, it looks a whole lot bettter than what you looked like a day ago," Sam said. He held out the thermometer. "Here."

"Jesus, Sam." He turned his head away. "I wake up and the first thing you gotta do is stick that in my mouth?"

Sam reached over, laid the back of his hand against Dean's forehead before Dean even knew what was happening. Still warm, but definitely nothing like the heat from the previous days. "Come on," Dean growled. "Get off." He didn't have it in him to push Sam away, Sam could see it, but Dean fighting him with his voice - hoarse as it was - was the most beautiful thing Sam had been a part of in a long while. It was Dean here again, not a hundred percent, not even close, but it was unmistakably Dean, getting back to where he should be.

"It's this or the thermometer," Sam said. He took his hand away, not completely satisfied but - grateful. Whatever Dean wanted - within reason - at this moment, he would try and give to him.

"Tired," Dean said, his eyes sliding shut, as if it was almost against his will. But that was all right - Sam knew he needed more sleep, given what he'd just been through.

"Okay," Sam said, quietly. His legs were shaking, just the slightest, at the delayed relief of _Dean being all right. _It was okay. He had the Tylenol, along with the antibiotics, he could push through the IV, and he could probably pull the saline soon, given how aware Dean seemed to be.

Whatever, Sam realized, as he adjusted the IV line, fixed the blanket, laid his hand across Dean's forehead again, even though it probably wasn't necessary. Whatever. _He had Dean. _He was _here, _alive.

Nothing but that counted.

**/**

It took awhile for them to get out of there, get a move on, but given how serious Dean's physical situation had been, Sam had to admit he'd bounced back much faster than he would've thought.

But despite how - quickly - Dean seemed to recover - and Sam knew it was quick, had pulled the saline a few hours after Dean had woken up and complained he was hungry, had switched the intravenous antibiotics for the oral ones a couple days later, and Dean had responded fine, had been on his feet shortly after that, shuffled to the bathroom to piss, to brush his teeth, to shower. He slept long and hard a good part of the day but managed to eat solid food and keep it down when he was awake. Despite all of the positive signs, and the short amount of time over which they'd transpired, Sam still felt like everything was moving too fast, that time was running out and every passing minute was working against them.

Which, of course, it was.

Sam stopped counting the days - couldn't do it, really - just about the time Dean became ready to go back on the road. Dean still wasn't fully recovered - not by a long shot. The fever had broken, his appetite was better - but he was weak, slept more than Sam could ever remember him sleeping and still wrangled with a terrible cough that especially plagued him upon awakening and just as he was about to fall asleep, despite all the antibiotics.

But he was also restless - almost annoyingly so - so Sam gave in and they left, dumped the medical shit - the IV stand and the used saline/drug bags, the needles, the tape - all of it - in the motel dumpster and fled, everything very much like they were used to, the hiding and getting rid of shit, and then taking off in the dead of night.

Sam knew Dean wouldn't be able to pick up with the hunting things right away - and Sam himself didn't want to bother with it at all, was ready to spend all of his time - their time - looking for the Colt and even getting Ruby back on the scene if necessary - but Dean probably wasn't even quite ready for that, either - not just yet - so Sam headed on an unspoken, cautious trail to Bobby's, if for no other reason than to see what he might have to say about what their next move should be, but more so that Dean could have a real place to try and gain some strength back.

Strength he was going to need.

They'd driven about four hours, Dean sleep for almost three of them, propped against the door with a pillow and covered with a blanket. They were almost to the Alabama-Mississippi border when Dean woke himself - not with the usual coughing and trying to catch his breath that they'd both become so familiar with, but with a sharp moan and then a start, his eyes resting on Sam long enough that Sam didn't know if he was fully awake or not. "You hurting?" The bullet wounds themselves were healing fine but every once in awhile and, if Dean stayed in one position too long or had one of his harder couging fits, there would be pain, pain that came from inside where the bullet had caused the infection or abscess or whatever it was that had done the internal damage.

"No." His voice was thick and low, and he pulled himself up, still looking disoriented.

"Bad dream?"

Dean made a noise that might've been a 'yes' or 'no' but Sam knew that's what it'd been, had known it even as Dean had been waking up. "How long have I been out?"

"Couple hours." Sam glanced over at him, waited for him to finish the coughing fit he couldn't quite hold back and tried to gauge where Dean was at. "You want to stop for anything?"

"No." He hacked up one last glob of - something - rolled his window down and spat out whatever he'd just coughed up, before wearily leaning his head back against the seat, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath.

_Just a bad cold, _Sam said to himself. _It's not worse than that. _He'd been telling himself that since Dean had woken up, used it like a mantra, a talisman that tricked him into believing everything had been nothing more than a bad dream, that Dean was all right, much as he'd been fooling himself into thinking that time really wasn't racing down to the end, and they were going to figure all this out, how to keep Dean out of Hell and everything would be fine.

"Sam, where are we going?"

Dean's impatient, croaky voice startled Sam from his thoughts. "What? Uh - Bobby's. For now, anyway."

"What? Why?"

'' 'Why?' " Sam frowned. "Because you nearly died a few days ago and I'm still not sure I did you any real good, judging by how sick you still are and you won't go to a hospital and we need to go somewhere you can get better."

Dean made some sort of irritated sound, but when Sam looked over at him he was quiet, his eyes closed once more, and Sam assumed he was settling back to sleep.

"It doesn't matter, you know."

Nope, not asleep. "What doesn't matter?"

"This. Going to Bobby's. Going _anywhere. _You doing all that you did - back at the motel."

"Dean, what the hell -"

"Don't get me wrong, Sam - the things you did for me back there - I know it wasn't easy. I know you saved my life and I - well, I owe you. I know that. But you said it yourself. I almost _died. _I'm dying right now. Maybe not from a bullet wound or pneumonia or whatever the hell it was, but I'm still dying. So whatever we do - whatever _you_ do for me - everything is going to play out the way it's meant to no matter what we want, and in the end it isn't going to matter."

A year ago - a few weeks ago - even a few days ago - this would've pissed Sam off no end, this defeatist thing Dean seemed to have going on - whatever his reasons - but now, as he looked at Dean - who kept his gaze steadfast out the window, the restless up-and-down bounce of his knee the only sign that he'd heard what Sam had said - he got it. He'd spent the year struggling to walk that fine line of doing what Dean wanted and trying to find a way to save him and in all honesty, hadn't been successful with either one. But that's what's been important to me, Sam thought. I've been worried about all that and what he really needs to know is the one thing I don't think he's ever heard, at least not from me.

"Of course it matters," Sam said. The words came to his mind and left his lips without a trace of anger, only sorrow. "It always matters. _You _matter. To me. You always have. Or don't you fucking get that yet?"

_You matter, you matter to me, to the world and you're meant to be here._

He can't say it. Not without getting pissed and punching something, or bursting into tears like a little kid, and neither of those things will do any good right now.

But it's the core of everything that lies between them, who they are, who Dean is and the things he's done.


End file.
